Conflicted

I punched my reflection in the mirror, knuckles bleeding. I could barely look at myself. How ugly can a person be? Then I had to push it aside. "No," I whispered, "it's not my fault. It's my parents. They had me. I look like them. I hate them." They're beautiful. "I hate them."

When I'm stressed, I tend to eat. I feel fat and ugly pigging out on whatever we have stored in the house. My parents aren't home, so I snuck out onto the roof, baggie of pot in hand. My friends and I usually smoked it together, but it kept the urge of consuming everything away. I could barely tolerate myself. My eyes shifted down to the grassy floor beneath me, hundreds of feet down. I could do it, if I wanted to. But I didn't. Because I like the way food tastes. And I like the way weed smells.

I don't have much money to buy anymore pot by the end of the day. I'm stoned and pissed. Not a good combo. Angrily, I storm towards the CVS closest to my house for work. I was still surprised that they wanted to hire me considering my track record. Not like it matters; when I'm sober, I put my mind to things. I'm better than this. Working at a register and putting packs of candy back in their assigned spots was beneath me. So I don't stay at work long. I clock out when I see that we don't have many customers. Pretend to call sick. Eye the money in the register. The cameras here don't work; they're just used to scare people off. So I take it and leave.

There's this girl I like who I've smoked with before. I text her, I head over to her place. The hookup doesn't last as long as I want it to. She said that she's exhausted from work, which I can agree with. We lay side-by-side, the smell of her sex ghosting the air along with the hotbox. I can't think of much else except for laying beside her nude form and closing my eyes for awhile.

©SelfTitled, 2017